Lair of Despair

|| garbage can stuffed with reblogs ||

[ax-wielding-writer]

Graves x fem!Reader | Sticks and Stones

My works are always intended for 18+ audiences.

4,122 words — Post interactions are always welcome! No reposting without permission, though. 💙

⬇️Swearing and questionable relationship dynamics⬇️

[A comment he makes in front of the shadows pisses you off. But that becomes water under the bridge after he touches you. Or does it?]

The naked but painted walls are plain: smooth and gray. Just by looking at them, you can sense how cold they are to the touch. The room is spacious, but it has no windows. Desks are crowding it. Behind these desks are loads of men and some women, hard at work. Some of them are wearing office clothes, others are dressed in tactical gear. Their outfits are a sea of black, gray, navy blue, and white.

There's a crowd of shadows near a whiteboard. They're all huddled in the room corner, eyes focused on the Shadow.

Phillip Graves is wearing a light blue shirt (the only one in that hue in the room and probably this whole floor) and dark blue jeans, both neatly highlighting the best of his figure. His sleeves are carefully pulled up to the elbows. He is beaming here and there while explaining an operation that has been planned. You're standing to the right of the shadows' crowd, listening to his voice but not actually paying attention, until he says this one particular thing.

"You all know how this is supposed to go down, fellas. We are shadows, after all. Leave your skirts at home, or, better yet, let professionals wear them." He nods at you, and the crowd of men turns their heads to gawk at your legs, barely covered by a smart mini skirt. Great, just wonderful! Thank you, Phillip, Mr. Shadow Man. Ugh.

You place your hands on your hips and shake your head, looking directly at him. His smile says it's just a joke, no need to get offended. Didn't I just pay you a compliment? Your furrowed brows say someone's not getting laid tonight. After this non-verbal exchange, you turn on your heels and walk away. It takes you a while to cross the room and reach an adjacent small office that has a window. You decide to plant yourself by it, observing the skyscrapers reaching for the heavens all over. It's sunny, and you're here, watching your boyfriend do his work, hoping to get a bit of his attention. At least that was the original plan. Now you want to leave and call your girlfriends to bitch about him to them. You had to sign a fucking NDA to be here, and for what?

While you're lost in thought, observing glass buildings that somehow manage to contain thousands of workers inside, Phil has come into the small office. You realize that's happened when you hear,

"Come on, babydoll, let's not cause a scene."

You’re upset by this start to your conversation, but you know there’s no point in pouting or starting “a thing”. You say nothing, and you don't turn to look at him. Still, your body language gives Phil an insight into your emotional state. If there’s one thing that motherfucker knows, it’s how to read people. It helps a lot in his line of work with his kind of morals and the bargaining chips he prefers to use.

So he starts talking to your back while keeping his distance by the door, which he closes seconds before opening his mouth. The noise of the big room gets muffled.

“Don’t tell me you’re mad about that, sweetheart.”

He makes sure to sound patronizing. Normally you'd get off on that, but not now.

“I’m not.” 

You sigh and cross your arms on your chest, still observing the outside.

Even though you know he won’t get it, for some reason you decide to add, “But do you have to be an asshole like that?”

Phil sighs out before replying.

“An asshole?”

His voice rises with genuine offense and surprise. Jesus, that man. You hear his footsteps as he’s moving toward you.

When he reaches you, he carefully puts his hands on your shoulders. Your body gets tense, and a phantom of his reflection appears in the perfectly clean window. He attempts to help you relax by massaging your shoulders, but you aren’t giving in. The dust hasn’t settled yet. You watch him put down his arms and step a bit back as all this is playing out in your trusted window like on a screen.

“Please face me.” He clenches his jaw and flexes his hands into fists to control his irritation. He doesn’t say “please” gently. There’s metal in his voice. This comes from a place of power. He demands it.

You don’t want to obey, not really, but arguing seems like too much effort, so you turn to face him.

When you get a look at him, a satisfied smile dances on his lips. Of course. Good for him. He steps up to you.

“Honey,” he murmurs as his pointer finger hooks around the gold necklace he recently gave you. “You know the drill,” he continues in a voice that’s entrancing, sweet like honey but with a bitter aftertaste. His eyes shift from the necklace to your eyes. You regret meeting his sharp look. You hate it—you can’t stand that it sounds like you’re selling yourself to him. For fucking jewelry.

But isn’t that at least half-true? You collect his priceless gifts like medals, as proof you’ve outdone yourself on your never-ending quest to please him. Even at your most livid with him, you never take them off. These days, you’ve grown to love him literally yanking at the chain around your neck as he takes you from behind. Once he gives you a ring, there won’t be a way out. Frankly, you aren’t looking for it, but he doesn’t need to know that. For a moment there, you consider how gratifying it will be to feel his fingers run over the metal on your ring finger while he kisses you, holds you, tells you something important or utterly ridiculous.

There’s something special about him, but you can’t quite put your finger on it yet. You crave him like you’re hungry for something only he can give you. You can’t walk away and you don’t, no matter how many times you’ve thought of that.

Shit, are you in love?

Maybe.

You need to answer his question, so you breathe in and sigh out, dragging the verb, “I kno-ow”. This is you admitting defeat. You're his, and he can be nasty all he wants—you won't walk away.

He grins and forces you into a hug. The familiar sensation of how strong Phil's body is against yours is soothing. You close your eyes, and he whispers in your ear,

“That’s my girl.”

His left hand is in your hair now and he tugs at it a bit. In a reflex, your fingers dive into his back.

And that's enough for you to get lost in him again. You don’t even remember what he said back then in front of everyone. Yet another time you bite the dust, which is only made worse by him whispering, 

"You do have gorgeous legs."

As the warm air travels from his lips to your skin, you hold your breath and then release it, feeling hot in-between your legs.

Your hands grab at his shirt more aggressively, this time consciously. Your head is spinning because being held by Phillip is intoxicating. Your bodies against each other like that, even with the clothes on, make goosebumps start to run across your skin, telling you this man’s touch means a lot to you. Add to that his clean smell and his perfume that brings a bitter taste to your tongue. Can he make it sweet instead by shoving his tongue inside your mouth? You hope so. Your body sinks into his embrace a bit as the sensations overwhelm you. You hope to stand like this for as long as possible, but you're aware that your "gorgeous legs" may give in at any moment.

The thing about Graves is he’ll never let go until you ask him to because he loves it when you tell him what you want done. He doesn’t always follow through, though, and there’s always a catch. Still, the warmth of his body and the security of his arms make you forget all that. You don’t feel like getting away from him, and you remain in his arms, sometimes holding your breath for long and then catching up with a deep inhale, as if that can ensure that the fragile gentleness of the situation remains intact. You take in his smell, and it feels like you know where you belong. Hints of detergent and a sharp hit of his aftershave remind you that in this life, there’s home to come back to.

That home is a person.

A fucked up, often irked and demanding man whose possessiveness is your shelter. You’re safe with him because, although no one else knows how to hurt you more, no one can keep the real monsters at bay better than him. No matter how much pain he causes you, he’ll break down anyone even looking at you wrong ten times worse.

And it’s complimentary because he chose you for himself. To play you, buy you out with astonishingly pricey gifts, control you, push you away, hold you so close it gets hard to breathe, argue until only sex can make you both shut up and ease the tension. To shout and whisper, grab you like you're his plaything or lightly run his fingers across your tired out and used naked body. It’s torture and pleasure, always hand in hand. The acid in his veins is sweet, and you’re the vampire for whom this cocktail has been mixed.

"I think I'll have to leave soon, darlin'." Him saying that breaks the security of your embrace. Fuck, it hurts; does it really have to end? You squeeze him tighter. Let him try and get away from that, huh! You know you're kidding yourself: this man could break you in half any moment if he wanted to. Be glad he doesn't. 

A mocking but still warm laugh leaves Phil’s lips in reaction to your desperate attempt to prolong this moment, along with,

 “You fell for me so bad, angel.”

It’s dorky, but you love it, so you laugh too.

“Did you just call me a fallen angel?”

“You know I did, and I can’t wait to make you fall harder.”

You giggle into his shoulder, and he tugs at your hair a bit again, his right arm hugging your waist tighter. He adores your laugh, have you noticed? If only you knew that a memory of a laugh you shared with him is quite often the anchor helping him get through the day.

When he lets down his guard like this for a bit here and there, loving him gets so easy. His fingers gently rub circles onto your side and scalp, and you melt away in this softness.

You almost forget that right now he’s ignoring a room full of men and women who can’t function without his orders just to be with you. But he remembers.

“So,” he starts again, “What are we gonna do, baby?”

He states this in his typical playful manner, but the voice seems tenser than before. 

Oh, no, here we go. Time to push him away before he gets to do that to you first. A sort of switch clicks inside you, sending you into defensive mode. Your body gets stiff again, and the electrifying feeling of him so close turns into an unsettling one instead. You press your palms firmly against his chest, giving him a sign to free you from his embrace. He does, and takes a step back, giving you space. He knows what this change in you means. You're professionals at the game of hot and cold at this point. Every girl's dream relationship, huh. But that's not all that's peculiar about the two of you.

There’s this thing Phil does before parting with you, especially before disappearing for long. He needs you to let him observe you for a while, squinting at you, gradually taking in your every feature and not saying a word while he’s at it, taking his sweet, sweet time with that. You feel it in your body like he’s touching you, every time. And that’s what he does now.

That piercing signature look of his is drilling into the surface of your skin. As it traces your body, it leaves goosebumps all over. It’s like suddenly you’re naked, so you take a step toward him, hoping this move will help you regain at least a bit of control in the situation. You feel like there’s still a battle to be won with him today. Your eyes are running all over his face, searching for something. Maybe you want to see a hint at a weakness?

"Please stay with me for longer. Or let's escape this place and everyone in it for a while. I need you." You say none of it, and a smile runs across your lips awkwardly, hoping it will protect your thoughts from being discovered by him. He could be a mind reader when he needed to. Your eyes keep racing along his perfect facial features.

Phil's body doesn’t react to you getting close. His face isn’t affected by your searching look. Only a coy smile forms on his lips as he teases you, baring his teeth, 

“Look at you acting all brave.”

You feel his breath on your skin from how close your faces are. Yet Graves doesn’t try to do anything except for keeping that bratty smile alive on his lips, when all you want him to do is to hold your face in his warm and rough palms, kissing away your anxiety and leaving the whole world behind as an afterthought. You're dramatic that way. It's all or nothing for you both. Thank god he's the same. But nothing is happening, and you’re stuck in a staring contest and a power game you’ll lose any moment now. His eyes are glowing with self-satisfaction. Having the upper hand in a situation is his favorite thing, so he’ll bask in the glory of being in control for as much as he needs.

Until…

Someone knocks on the door, dispelling the tension. You instinctively flinch and take a look at it; Phil remains calm. Without moving his eyes away from your features, he extends a hand in the direction of the door and raises his voice in an obnoxious, power-soaked “NO!”. 

That’s the end of it. They leave you alone for now. You release the tension from your body, letting your shoulders sink.

“They do fear you, huh," you’re thinking out loud, before even realizing it. You often admire the man aloud, and his ego eats that shit up every time.

He grins wider and nods in response.

“And they love me too,” he adds after a pause, pressing on the "l" word slightly, as if it matters. Does it?

His eyes stay fixated on you, and there’s a spark in them when he says that. God, does he know? You worry like it isn’t alright for the guy you’re dating to know you have feelings for him. It is, though, isn’t it? Gosh, it’s complicated being Phillip Graves’s girlfriend at times. You haven't told each other anything about "love", even though you’ve been together for quite some time. Not yet.

Neither of you adds anything else to the conversation. Will he stop staring? You aren’t sure, but you believe he’s taking mental pictures for later and also considering all the ways he’s going to touch you later. Maybe he’s just reveling in the power he has over you this way, though. Can’t be sure with this bastard. Whatever the truth is, you always allow him to take you in like that. In the meantime, depending on your state of mind, you either curse him with every known bad word that suits him or fantasize about being fucked by him. Oh the many scenarios that have played out in your head like that! When he leaves, more often than not, you have to touch yourself to get your head clear again.

After what feels like an eternity passes by, he nods to himself as if satisfied with his ”work” and heads for the door.

This sudden change in the atmosphere, tension turning to nothing, makes you blurt out a desperate, “W-wait.” Your cheeks flush, and you feel a little out of breath. Your arms are stretched toward him as you say this, but there's distance between you now, and you drop them because grasping at air makes no sense. What a movie-like scene.

Phil stops right in front of the door but doesn’t turn to you. He checks his watch and clears his throat.

“Yes, darlin’?” He looks up at the ceiling, pretending he’s not really interested in what you have to say.

“Can you do something for me?”

He snorts (that asshole!) and sighs out, “Yes?”

Like he's a cool high school jock who needs to protect his reputation, and you're an unpopular schoolgirl, and he's doing you a favor by paying attention to you. Backing out feels right about now, but you started this, so you have to go through with it.

“Could you hug me again?”

“Of course,” he half-laughs, half-states. There’s a pause before he adds, more for the purposes of drama than to think,

“But then you’ll kiss me in front of the boys.”

Everything is a bargain with this man. You shake your head (which he can’t see), but your mouth is quick to agree, and that's all he needs from you. A simple "yes." A surrender.

He slowly rotates on the spot and paces back to you; time seems to stretch like elastic, making this tiny office seem bigger. You watch him, preparing for the worst, for the burn of the elastic of time on your skin. But it doesn’t come. He plainly takes you into his arms and commands you to close your eyes.

Embraces aren’t a common thing for you two, and getting a second one so soon is kind of unbelievable. No tricks? You obey without hesitation. You feel so safe like that. So comforted. Why doesn’t he hug you all the time? He’s good at it. You should tell him.

You feel encouraged to be warm, so, on the spur of the moment, you start kissing his neck, feeling every inch of his smooth and warm skin with your lips and tongue. Your fingers dive into his hair, and his head tilts back after you pull at it, allowing you to move on to his jaw. The man is already losing his grip on reality. His eyes are closed, and his breathing gets so loud in this tiny room that it seems deafening to you. As you trace his scar with your lips, all the way to the ear, he grips onto you so strongly that it hurts. You’re shaking from the excitement of this whole thing, and there’s ringing in your ears. But the moment your lips brush against his, he pushes you away. Your skin suddenly feels cold in the places where he held on to you tight only moments ago. Your fingers feel useless because they can't keep ruffling his hair. Your breathing is heavy. Phil’s is no better, but he’s getting it under control and exhaling,

“That’s enough, babydoll. I got work to do. Let’s go.”

Goddammit. Oh, he loves doing that. Enjoys watching you get all hot and bothered and relishes the power to stop you from getting where you need to go with this. He paces back to the door, takes a moment to collect his thoughts, then opens the door and leaves.

Phil expects you to follow him back into the room where it all started, so you do. That was the deal (kind of). First, you check your reflection in the window, to make sure you look presentable enough to go back.

Having fixed your hair, you run your palms along your skirt, breathe out, and plaster a calm smile onto your face. By the time you reach the spot with the whiteboard, Phil’s already hard at work. His hair’s messy, and the shirt isn’t neat anymore, but no one seems to care. He gives out orders, checks some info on a nearby screen, has a longer chat with one of the shadows. Pats some guys on their backs, and they laugh together. A lot of time passes, and all you do is watch and listen. His voice is your favorite sound in this world and the sight of him is always a treat, so the pleasure is all yours. 

You probably do love him. Nonetheless, the charm of this guy is sometimes exhausting. You actually like having him alone for yourself because when he's reading something on his phone or doodling while having his first morning coffee, and only you're around, you get to watch him just as he is. Not performing, not naturally making everyone around him fall in love with his stupid, stupid gorgeous face. Just being there. That’s enough for you.

When he’s done being the boss, Phillip winks at you from a distance, and then comes up to you and whispers in your ear, 

“It’s showtime, darlin’.” His gaze falls onto your lips, and you swallow—not only is it showtime, it’s time for payback is what it feels like.

You manage to slowly close and open your eyes, trying to compose yourself before he grabs your neck from behind, places his other hand on your ass, and kisses you in an exaggerated manner. Sloppily, hungrily. Groping you, making your neck hurt under the pressure of his fingers. A noisy, hungry sort of kiss. A bit aggressive and overwhelming. It’s tacky, like you’re in an adult movie. So different from how he kisses you in private.

Of course, there's an audience right here. If they aren’t outright staring, then at least they're covertly enjoying the theatrics. The room has gotten noticeably quieter. Gosh, haven't they seen PDA before? A subway drive will do them good. Judgmental thoughts race through your mind, distracting you from the kiss. You enjoy being shown off like that, and it turns you on, but it's all just to prove a point. Phillip Graves has power over you. He owns you. Have fun telling others that your relationship is healthy.

When he’s satisfied, he moves his mouth to your neck and sucks in the skin a little above your collarbone until that leaves a hickey. Watches his work and smiles at the result. Finally, his eyes meet yours, and he winks at you. Then he frees you from his arms and looks around, saying, loud enough for most of the people in the room to hear,

“Alright, sweetheart, it’s time for you to leave.” That self-absorbed, self-satisfied prick. God, he's good. But so are you.

After he takes his hands off you and basks in the glory of his statement, you surprise him by pulling him in for another kiss that leaves you both breathless. It’s gentler, more intimate. You’ve grabbed at his crispy shirt and taken a step back, crushing into a table that’s by some miracle not occupied at the moment. A pencil holder falls down to the side, setting its wooden prisoners free. The table shakes.

You giggle like a naughty teenage girl. One of your eyebrows goes up and you tilt your head. This is a challenge. Will he answer? 

Of course, he does. Unabashed, he pushes your legs apart with his knees and moves in-between them. You taste his tongue again. Pulling away but grabbing onto his hair, you can’t contain a smile. His expression is hazy, and he’s so hard against you.

“Now, the show’s over,” you think but don’t speak up. You let go of him, quickly fix your hair and clothes, and get up.

You believe you’ve won, but before you get to take a step away, you feel Phil’s hand slapping your behind. For a moment, you freeze because you weren’t expecting this. Your cheeks flush, and your grin fades. But you leave without a comment. Your walk is determined; your anger shows through it. Phil gladly takes in your view from behind, contemplating the stuff he wants to do to you when he’s back tonight. Oh, he'll be so back. Bet he'll be running home even if it rains, hails, or a sudden snowstorm occurs. After you’ve gone, he checks his watch to count how many hours is left before that happens. 

Then he looks around the room and declares, 

“Back to business, boys and girls. Gotta work to feed the lady.” His face is dreamy. Oh, he’ll feed the lady. She’s hungry for him, that’s for sure. 

|Written and edited by Tee.| @ax-wielding-writer

Only fair to mention this post as inspiration, as it all started from the jewelry bit in it for me. Thank you for the headcanons, @mariariley. 💕 Dedicated to @piney-winey-socks. Will always appreciate you for helping me see this guy and supporting me through the writing process.🖤 Don't hesitate to reach out via asks if you need me to take your mentions down. Love, Tee

[the-big-mood]

In 1997, local television in Kharkiv accidentally filmed one of the most iconic rave moments in history.

[ruinedchildhood]

[shilyas]

ilya + wearing black

[roguedoodling]

Phillip Graves x Real One by Smash Into Pieces

More Graves by me:

Just the b&w version of these^

A sexy moodboard

A comfy moodboard

An inktober doodle

A silly edit (mw iii)

An x reader fic

Another fic

A headcanon

Graves in pencil

Another pencil sketch

[teruel-a-witch]

Bonded Pair. Do Not Separate☢️

[agentbootyreportingforduty]

[buddiequeerbait]

[buddiequeerbait]

for @sharpbutsoft

bonus:

[elzee350wtf]

Pick a Base

The "pick a base" line is perfect for exploration. Thanks fellas

Shout out to @mayberrycryptid for reference help!

[teruel-a-witch]

#paint me like one of your french detectives

[buddiequeerbait]

[lover-of-mine]

#nothing like a bomb as a bonding experience huh?

[throughthelabrynth]

"Your tie is all jacked up. Can i fix it for you?" (and then Steve let's him. obviously.)

[aashiqeddiediaz]

mcgarrett. you got a visitor.

[ID: five gifs of Steve McGarrett and Danny Williams from Hawaii Five-0, episode 2.01. Steve is in jail, wearing the orange jumpsuit, and Danny's come to visit him. They talk on phones through a partition glass.

GIF 1: Steve lazes back on his elbow with the phone to his ear, his eyes dropping down somewhere on Danny's neck. His smile widens as he looks back at Danny, seemingly laughing to himself as he looks back up, amused.

GIF 2: Danny watches Steve incredulously, spreading his free hand out in a confused gesture as he asks, "Why are you smiling at me?"

GIF 3: Steve smiling, looking at Danny through hooded eyes as he says, "You're not wearing a tie, it suits you." He glances back down to Danny's open collar before smirking back at him.

GIF 4: Danny looks down at himself before popping one side of his collar, wryly stating, "No, I'm not wearing a tie, 'cause there's no dress code for an out-of-work cop."

GIF 5: Steve, still giving Danny that amused look, mouth-shrugs as he turns to look behind himself, smiling slightly against the phone as he looks for anyone listening.

/end ID]

[shaneposting]

anyway good morning a crucial tenet of hollanov’s relationship is that they’re equals and they’re the only people in the world who could ever be each other’s equal. they were supposed to stand alone at the top but they’re there together. shane does not view ilya as a lazy useless inconvenience. ilya does not view shane as a nagging killjoy. they are equals and they both think the other is the best thing since sliced bread and they love each other but more importantly they LIKE each other. stop making them not like each other!

[shaneposting]

like ilya spends his entire life being told (by people objectively shittier than he is) that he’s not good enough, he’s lazy, he’s undisciplined, he lets people down. and then he meets the one person who would actually be in a position to assess whether ilya is any of those things, and shane just earnestly looks into his fucking soul and says no, they were wrong. ‘you’re an awesome player to watch’ ‘i don’t know that side of you at all’ ‘this isn’t what this is. me and you’

and it’s such a fucking tragedy that people are trying to push MyIlya back into a setting where he’s constantly being lectured about his inadequacies by the very person that canonically reminds him all the time that those inadequacies were figments of his dad’s imagination

[ohbee-whatcanyoube]

[bizarrelittlemew]

but above all, one must not concern oneself with the opinions of people who censor the word fuck